The Words Unsaid Johnlock
by ConfusedPrettyandUsed
Summary: Sherlock and John are on a case, and when things go wrong they are forced to kiss, bringing about feelings they never even knew they had...


JOHNLOCK STORY – THE WORDS UNSAID

It was another typical day for John and Sherlock, walking into a gay bar and holding hands. Well, it was another typical day in the sense that they were doing this for a case.

At first, there were three men found dead, all poisoned, as though the murderer hadn't wanted them to die in too gruesome a manner. However, their throats were also slit – with no trace of the blood anywhere. Of course, Sherlock deduced straight away that the killer was trying to drain the blood, therefore the poison, from the body and not leave traces around the body either, however skipped over the fact that the poison would have soaked through to other places. (A _huge _mistake that murderers don't normally make, as Sherlock pointed out.) But they couldn't find anything that linked Jonathan Mares, Roger Harpings and Julian Smith (the three men found dead).

Sherlock had been enticed with this case for a few days, and one day he was looking through their receipts and he found the thing that had brought him and John here today – all three of them had receipts from Compton's, the gay bar where Sherlock and John were now. Sherlock then broke it to the wife of Roger Harpings, and the mother of Jonathan Mares, rather harshly, that they were both gay. Now here they were, posing as a gay couple, and oh the looks they got when they told people what they were going to do. All the "I knew it" looks and smug smiles, it made John want to punch each and every one of them in the face, but John couldn't shake the memory of what "The Woman", Irene Adler had once said: "Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait." He gulped when he thought of this, thinking of what she'd say now if she saw them, if she were still alive.

John also couldn't seem to put the though of the warm, gentle, safe feeling he had with Sherlock's hand wrapped around his out of his mind. Their bond had never been something they discussed, or addressed, all they knew was that they were friends – even if they felt something else, it had always been strictly locked away. But now, with the tentative feel of Sherlock's hand wrapped around his, John wasn't so sure – but he had to focus on the problem at hand, nothing of these nonsensical thoughts.

So, sitting down at the bar, they both ordered a couple shots. The plan was to blend into the atmosphere, dance, and perhaps cuddle in one of the cushioned chairs at the more vacant – but equally loud - space in the back. They needed to convince people of their sexuality, flaunt their relationship, and just have fun (or pretend to, anyways).

Once their brains were a bit muddled with the alcohol and they were able to dance without worrying about the awkward feel of them knowing they were straight, they got up and began moving with everyone else – just two people amongst a bunch of partygoers. Eventually, the music switched to a slow rhythm, and John gazed up at Sherlock, unsure of what to do.

Clearly just as lost and uncomfortable, Sherlock reached down and laced his arms around John's waist, and as he pulled John in John could feel his stiff, joint hands resting just above his waistband. Swallowing the lump that had arisen in his throat, John slowly reached up and rested one arm on Sherlock's shoulder, his hand at the back of his neck, while the other reached up under his arm to let his hand rest on the small of Sherlock's back. It was comfortable, it really was, but they were stiff and unsure and god they must look like a tangled mess.

In order to ward off suspicion, John let their bodies press up against each other, resting his head on Sherlock's chest.

Next thing he knew warm breath was being blown against his ear as Sherlock whispered to him, obviously trying to look as though he were whispering something loving, "John, I-I'm not sure about this."

In response, John just whispered a muffled, "It's pretend, just pretend. God, Sherlock, it's just for a case. It's okay, trust me."

He immediately felt Sherlock relax, and the rest of the song went like that, them just swaying to the beat, looking a mess locked in each other's arms.

When the song finally (_finally_) ended – god, it must have been at least an hour long – Sherlock and John decided to skip the cuddling (If dancing had been that awkward, they bloody well weren't going to _cuddle_) and headed back to the bar to question the bartender.

Once settled with drink in hand, Sherlock taps his fingers on the glass and casually turns to the bartender, and John can't help the ghost of a smile on his lips as he watches Sherlock put on his act – _how _he could act that well John would never know – and open his mouth to start talking to the bartender.

"So," He said, looking sad and anxious. "So…" Clearing his throat, he looks up at the now-curious bartender. "Do you, um, know anything… Have you…" A tear falls down Sherlock's cheek as a result of the drug he had sneakily dropped into his drink. _God_, he could fool people as if playing with their minds was like playing with the minds of ants. Sniffling and wiping away the tear, he continued, "I mean, _do _you know somebody named Jonathan Mares?" Another sniffle. If John didn't know better, he would swear that Sherlock was actually upset about this. "He… He was a good friend of mine. I know he came here constantly, I think I'm the only one he ever told the truth to outside of people here. Anyway, he, uh…" Sherlock buried his face in his hands, seemingly unable to carry on.

The bartender stood there in shocked silence, unsure of what to do. John, however, knew this was his signal to start, and so he reached his hand over to Sherlock and dragged one of his hands away from his face and gave it a tight squeeze along with a reassuring smile. He could tell by the glint in Sherlock's eye that he was playing his part exactly right, and so he continued on to say (_very_ gently), "Maybe I should tell the rest, okay Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly, giving a shaky "Y-yes, g-g-go ahead."

Giving his hand another tight squeeze, John turned back to the bartender, clearing his throat and going on sadly, "Well, he… He went missing about a week ago, and was found dead a day later. Mar was murdered. That was his nickname, Mar," (Sherlock, always the perfect timing, gave a sob just then, and John let go of his hand so he could take his head and press it to his chest in a comforting way.) "and well… His death was identical to the murders of Roger Harpings and Julian Smith, and the only thing that we can think of that would connect them was that they all came to this bar, and we were wondering if you had seen anything strange or anything that might help us figure out the death of my fiancée's dead friend." At this he slid under Sherlock on the bar stool, so that Sherlock was merely a ball in his lap, and ran his hand through his hair.

The bartender, obviously shocked at this news, suddenly got suspicious. Was it that Sherlock and John were both stiff and looked so much like a tangled mess while they were dancing? Would he believe that they had accepted themselves and been together long enough to be engaged? John didn't know, but what he did know was that the bartender was now looking at them like they were gum on his shoes.

"The police were in here a couple days ago, asking the same thing. And I'll tell you what I told them, because you're so obviously _not _a couple, I don't betray the confidence of any of my customers, alive or dead." He looked huffy and angry and Sherlock had stopped crying and was trying to look uncertain about the bartender instead of fuming angry (because the bartender just _had _to be a bit smart and things weren't going at _all _like Sherlock planned) like he was. "I don't believe for one second that you two are really gay, or that you really knew Jonathan Mares at all. All you are is scum looking for some information for a newspaper article or something, trying to show-up the police. Why, the way you two were dancing, you most definitely haven't been a couple long enough to be in a serious commitment. The only thing that would convince me you two were a couple was if you kissed."

John and Sherlock (trying to look angry and defensive instead of embarrassed and caught red handed) gazed at each other, John trying to decide whether the tingling in his hand from running it through Sherlock's hair or the warmth of Sherlock's hand wrapped around his was going to make any difference in this situation. Either way, _John was not gay… _and he didn't think he could fake it either. Sherlock seemed at a loss for words though – and John remembered how shy Sherlock was about things like this – so John gestured for him to stand up, and took hold of the situation.

"Fine, whatever. Be bloody stubborn." He spat angrily at the bartender, who looked smug. Sherlock looked too shocked to speak, obviously thinking John was going to blow their cover. "Fine. We'll kiss. But just so you know, we don't plan on coming back here again, given the way we're being treated." Sherlock was now at the next bar stool, half-standing, half-sitting, and John stood from his stool and gently pulled Sherlock into him, reading fear and uncertainty and some things he couldn't place in those usually locked-shut eyes and willed with his entire being that Sherlock could see the fact that he was trying to say 'trust me' through _his _eyes.

Slowly and carefully (but not too slowly; he didn't want to make the bartender suspicious) John leant towards Sherlock, eyes still firmly locked with his, but let them flutter shut when their lips met. It was glorious; way better than John was expecting, and as Sherlock flicked his tongue over John's lips, John complied and let his mouth open easily, and they got lost in the kiss. John was dizzy and confused by the time he pulled away, and wanted nothing more than to lean back in, but – _no. _No, he didn't. This was just for show. But as inexperienced – meaning no experience whatsoever – as Sherlock was at this, John couldn't help but be amazed at how expert he seemed; then again, what _didn't _Sherlock instantly become an expert at?

Together, they turned back toward the bartender, and though Sherlock looked angry John was just trying his best to look _normal, _as if kissing his best friend/flat mate was something he did every day, and not something completely ridiculous and fascinating and _amazing _and confusing.

The bartender nodded and said, "Alright, then. I know fake when I see it, perhaps this time I was wrong though. You two seem accustomed enough to, uh, that… so, I apologize. It's just that I've had enough from the police already, I told them everything I could without breaking customer confidence but they still haven't stop harassing me." John nodded, and saw Sherlock nod curtly as well, the drug coming back into effect momentarily as a tear slipped down his cheek. "Well," he continued, "To tell you the truth I did see one person that those three boys had in common – I'd never seen him before, but he came three nights in a row. And on each of those three nights he left with one of those boys, and I haven't seen them since."

"Wow, three consecutive nights, you must work a lot." John put in, although he was glad to talk to someone who had been able to see all the victims and know what connected them.

"Yes, well," The man began again, "I am the owner." That explained the bloody loyalty to his customers, then. "Anyways, this man… I don't have a name, but I can give you a description." They nodded again and the owner gave them some paper and a pencil so one person could write down the description and the other could attempt an accurate drawing.

After they got all the information they could, they thanked the man and left and as soon as they were out Sherlock called Lestrade, giving him the description, and within an hour they had arrested a Benjamin Williams. After, they decided to 'celebrate' by going out for Chinese.

John was still dazed and confused from the kiss, and was going to bring it up but Sherlock got going on about another subject and John just played along and wondered if they'd ever talk about. Even though they pretend everything is fine, John knows (and he's _sure _Sherlock knows) that they can never go back to feeling like 'just friends', and he knows everything has changed.


End file.
